Witches' Brood

I had an unsettling, lucid dream two nights ago. I'm accustomed to strange dreams--I mean, hell, I once had to save a peach jam sandwich from a burning building and a rampant tyrannosaurus--but this one left me especially uneasy. For whatever reason, I was out in the woods along a river bank. I was with several friends, whose faces I can't remember, and we were learning to tune ourselves into the cosmic flow, to commune with the Ascended Masters. The idea was to encase ourselves in total meditation, focusing all energy on asking the Masters to guide us on our true paths.

To do this, we were required by the leader (whose identity escapes me) to lie on the ground and breathe deeply. The voices of the Masters would become apparent as distant whispers, and then we would ask them five questions. Everyone around me asked the five questions but not only could I not remember a single one, but I also felt terribly uncomfortable every time I heard them. The name "Moloch" appeared in the third question. For those unfamiliar with demonology, Moloch is a Semitic demon associated with child sacrifice. If anyone, at this point, does not understand why this would make me uncomfortable, please direct your forehead post-haste to the nearest wall and repeat until the meaning becomes clear.

Though I couldn't recite the five questions, I still felt like I was being lifted, and all around me, the eyes of my peers were opening, completely white, sans iris. Somehow I could see my own face, and my own eyes were milky throughout. A voice told me to ask for what I most desired, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of anything. A thousand, vague ideas flowed through my mind, but there was nothing to grasp, to keep it from flowing right through. Then, I settled back to Earth, and all those around me stood up, relieved. I, however, stayed on the ground because I did not understand what had happened and wanted to know. I stayed until my alarm went off.

I awoke feeling calm, enlightened even, but as the day progressed, I realized how false the feeling was. I had committed a grave writer's sin: not knowing what I want. It reminded me of my last date, almost a year ago, at which I was asked, "Who are you without your stories?" "What do you mean," I thought, "I'm a writer. Writing is my life."

"But who are you?"

The question hit me hard. Storytelling is my only social grace. Small talk is the bane of my existence; when I can tell a story, I can actually put forth energy. But beneath the charade and the showmanship, beyond the embellishments on memories of the past, who am I? What do I want? Why do I believe I am sacrificing my childhood to an ancient demon who promises me everything I desire, when I don't even know what it is that I desire? Because the demon is nothingness; it promises nothingness, because that is what my desire has come to embody.

As a child, my desire was pure and simple: become a zookeeper, get married, have a family, live happily ever after. Sure, these were loaded with fantasy, but at least they were clear and fit my character. Fifteen years later, I've graduated in screenwriting, forbidden myself from relationships, and distanced myself from my family. Why? I convinced myself that a more reputable life awaited me in Hollywood. I convinced myself that true love between two people is a socially marketed delusion. I convinced myself that my family and friends silently resent me. How many of these assumptions are true, I don't know, but after fifteen years, when the only niche I can scrape into human society is through stories of my childhood, which hasn't existed for years, I have grown tired of them.

At the end of a story's third act, the character usually hits a low point. Technically, my story has only hit the end of Act One, the point where the character reaches the first big decision: make the change or resist it? I've resisted it for years, not out of fear but sloth. It is easier to stay the same, to stagnate, to commit the gravest sin against the self. It takes time and hard work to become the paragon of oneself, but what good is a life that has squandered its potential? What good comes from a low point at the end of Act One? That's just poor structuring.

In order to break this enduring pattern, I must ask myself the five questions, no matter how much they terrify me:

1. What, of my childhood, defines me as Kyle Jarrett?
2. What desires from my childhood have I not fulfilled, yet must fulfill, to restore balance?
3. What must I recreate from my childhood, to restore peace of mind?
4. What must I destroy from my childhood in order to progress?
5. How do I love like a child without the naïveté of a child?

The search for answers begins now.

Frosted Flakes

"L.A. is full of flaky people. It's one of those bad behaviors that's never punished."

Thus spake a friend of mine in the car, while driving me to an event to which we were both invited.  After dropping me off, he then got back in his car and drove home, owing to his significant other making a surprise visit that weekend.

According to the Urban Dictionary, to flake is "to decide not to go at the last second; to 'ditch' or 'bail out.'" It doesn't necessarily mean a person has better plans that have popped up miraculously at the last second. No, the rationale could very well fit within one of the following mind frames:

• "With the price of gas what it is, when you get it... if you get it."
• "This book on the hatchet cell morphology of the riverine tsetse fly is far too fascinating to put down now."
• "So-and-so, the anti-proton to my proton will be there.  Ergo, it's a no-go with so-and-so."
• "Oh, em, gee!  It's a six-hour marathon of {insert vapid, brain-slurping reality programming here}!"

No matter the obstacle, the manner of self-placation invariably falls along the lines of "It's okay; she'll understand," or "It's okay; there will be lots of people there," or "It's okay; I'll just see him at such-and-such a date." In some cases, this may be true, but there are proper ways of approaching this and many improper ones. Here are the top five flaky excuses that leave me frosted enough to put the "Grrr!" in "Grrreat!"

1. "Oh, I forgot."
   (What part of répondez s'il vous plaît don't you understand?)
2. "I was drunk / hungover / high."
   (Was this in anticipation of my function or part of your daily routine?)
3. "My friend / relative just came into town."
   (And you neither knew this before or thought to bring them along?)
4. "Hello... {Vapid, brain-slurping reality show} was on!"
   (And I suppose you're going to TiVo our time together.)
   
5. Silence...
   (Not going to be the one to break it.)

I may seem bitter about these situations, but having experienced all five excuses for flaking on birthday parties, group projects, dates, and favors, without an apology or, many times, even an acknowledgment of flakery, it starts to grate on a person. Of all the virtues, I hold sincerity among the highest, and my first, idealistic/naïve instinct when someone tells me they will call me at 6:00 or meet with me on a Tuesday is that they sincerely intend to do so and will let me know if anything changes.  When I adjust my schedule to accommodate that 6:00 phone call or Tuesday meeting, then hear nothing until days after, if at all, it damages my relationship with that person.

Life is unpredictable, and trouble pops up where and when it's least expected.  With the aid of social networking sites, most people now have to keep track of dozens, if not hundreds, of acquaintances.  Still, I ask these questions to the greater masses.  Is it beyond the average skill set to reschedule?  Is it just too terrifying to make the call to apologize for or even confess to flaking?  Is this one person so insignificant among your hundreds of acquaintances that it really doesn't matter how they feel about your absence?  Finally, would it really be so insulting to hold someone accountable for flaking?

I am by no means a flakeless wonder.  My memory is so scattered that my history of flakes would require prescription-strength Head & Shoulders.  Nonetheless, when I do cancel at the last second, regardless of the reason, I at least show the other person the courtesy of letting them know that "Yes, I would like to hang out with you in the future," or "Yes, please keep me posted on your future projects."  In summation, "Yes, I do actually care about what you're doing; it's just that at this moment, our time-space continua are not meant to intersect."  Whether or not they believe me, it's a more personal gesture than pretending a vapid, brain-slurping reality program is a valid alternative to spending some all-too-brief time with another human being.

Shlurp.

Thanks Again for Applying

Dear Dater Dave,

Thank you for submitting your application for the role of "Pole Hopper." After long hours of deliberation, the committee here at Cranium Jarrettum, Inc. has decided that your application has not met our standards of tact and sanity. This letter is to serve as a written confirmation of this decision.

The committee was impressed by your surveillance techniques, chiefly how you managed to confirm our representative's identity after watching him from a concealed location outside a bar. The committee was further impressed by your ability to identify our representative without ever having met him before and track him to his Facebook profile, though his profile image does not display his actual face. Unfortunately, these techniques do not fulfill the requirements of the Attraction Department, and we have just filled the last opening in Espionage.

You are clearly a bright and resourceful individual with many skills to give you a one-up in your career as a stalker. If you would like to apply for a position with one of our partner companies, we will forward your information along.

We wish you little personal success with your hump hunt and into the future. Thank you for your interest in Cranium Jarrettum, Inc.

Regards,

Kyle Jarrett
H.O.S. Cranium Jarrettum, Inc.